


And All Over a Book

by o0_TheMilkyBarKid_0o



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, BDSM, Cunnilingus, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Gaslighting, I wrote this in self-quarantine, Light Bondage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rape Fantasy, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Safewords, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, characters no one cares about, dominant submissive relationship, light nipple torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23314441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0_TheMilkyBarKid_0o/pseuds/o0_TheMilkyBarKid_0o
Summary: Was she crazy? Did she truly want to kiss a man who infuriated her so? Who had no respect for her boundaries, and seemingly no respect for her either?Why did that ignite such a /fire/ within her?What was wrong with her?
Relationships: Female Amell/Ser
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a finished work, I'm just editing as I go alone. Update will occur every 2 days until finished. Blah blah blah my Warden Commander Amell is in the Keep as Warden Advisor and is helping Cullen with the worst of his withdrawals - Ser was the Templar Trainer if you chose the Warrior class. Male Trevelyan romancing Cassandra. Ser isn't even in the list of characters on this site so I am fully expecting this fic to get lost in the ether.
> 
> I wrote this when I was super bored and lonely during self-isolation because I probably got the virus.
> 
> I really miss my boyfriend. 
> 
> This felt like exorcising a fucking demon, because it only took like 4 days to write completely.

The first time she met him, she had been ill-prepared. 

The bluster of the wind made it difficult to close the door to Cullen’s office, and briefly the Warden Commander struggled with it, leaning her upper body against it and closing it with a light slam. 

“Apologies, Cullen, the weather makes ill work of missives today-” but stopped as she straightened, looking between the two men in the room who had gone silent at her interruption. 

Constance let her eyes drift between the two of them; Cullen, looking irritated by his severe brow and his stance, and the other man clad in green had some unreadable expression. “Oh… apologies, am I intruding…?”

“No,” Cullen said too quickly, and judging by his tone he was not pleased, not pleased at all, “my guest was just leaving.” 

The man in green said nothing, but there was a quirk to his black mustache that belied his amusement. Constance was unsure of his armour - she had certainly not seen the make of the like before, and there was no crest on his chest to speak of. There was a simple longsword at his hip. His black hair was tied up in a bun at the back of his head - he looked,  _ young _ , but it was difficult to tell with the carefully tended facial hair of impressive bulk and length that she was sure even Blackwall would be envious of. 

And he made no effort to move, even when Cullen very pointedly looked at the door. 

_ A Templar, perhaps? _ She thought, eyeing the Andrastian eye at the end of his tail-coat. And there was something to the square of his shoulders, to his stance, the proud tilt of his chin upward that many would mistake for arrogance… no, she was sure of it. A Templar. 

Of what significance was his presence in Cullen’s office, and giving cause for such offence? 

And his accent - Fereldan,  _ perhaps _ , as he spoke without looking at her once, in a smooth drawl of educated diction, “We were just discussing the good Commander’s quite recent attempt at withdrawing from Lyrium,” he said, folding his arms. 

“That discussion of which is now over,” Cullen said back, jerking his head towards the door, “and I need hear no more of it.” 

“Very well,” the man shrugged, “clearly my advice is falling on deaf ears.” 

As Constance approached with missives in hand, she felt a little impressed. There were few in the Inquisition who would knowingly incur the Commander’s ire, few even still who had not been matched with his biting temper and wicked wit. Cullen could be unbelievably stubborn at the best of times, yet this man seemed to care little for the breach in rank, if he was even part of the Inquisition at all. 

A passing Templar looking to argue with the Inquisition’s Commander? There was more hope of a candle burning brightly free in the storm outside. 

And about his Lyrium withdrawal? Constance had enough terrible arguments with him to know there was no convincing him otherwise - resigned, instead, she was, to helping him through the worst of its effects. 

And he was doing well… despite it all. Knowing he was arguing the contrary was something which raised her hackles, though she knew little of their conversation. 

“Apologies again,” she said tersely, trying to will the tension in the room down a notch, “I did not mean to intrude.”

Though if she had to defend Cullen’s decision against this…  _ man _ , then she would. 

Until he rounded her on, with piercing black eyes as sharp as arrow-heads, and when he approached past the desk she found he stood entirely too close to loom over her, “You need not apologise,  _ Mage. _ I was just leaving.”

Mage? She hadn’t been referred to as ‘Mage’ since she was young apprentice in the Circle, and the audacity of it brought a ruffled bluster to the underneath of her feathers - 

“You will address her by her proper title,” Cullen corrected sharply beside her, cutting through the incredulity still caught in the back of her neck, “She is Warden Commander Constance Amell, Warden and Magical Advisor to the Inquisition, not some Hedge-Mage wandering about the Keep.” 

“Even then, using names or titles would be only polite,” she finally said, and irritatingly he never once glanced away, his eyes chokingly defiant. 

“A Mage by any other name,” the man huffed and swept out of the room, letting in a draught so strong and so cold that it sent one of her missives flying, and in her embarrassment she had to break her incredulous eyeline with his back to bend to catch it off the floor.

“Who was  _ that? _ ” She irked, dumping the missives in her hands to the desk. 

Exhaustedly, Cullen rolled his eyes, “That is one of the trainers sent to help the Inquisitor. He will be teaching him the Templar specialisation.” 

The bottom fell out of her stomach. “You can’t be serious,” she breathed. 

Cullen sat heavily into his chair, running a hand down his face, “‘Tis unfortunately the truth.” 

“He has seen what you have been through,” she reasoned, “tell me he is not considering this.” 

“There are other trainers, but he is considering this. He is considering all of them.”

“Surely the Champion class would be better suited-”

“All arguments I have had with him before,” Cullen said, looking weary, “And then again with  _ him _ . There is little more I can say. Talk to Trevelyan if you wish, but I doubt he’ll listen,” 

She knew by his tone that Cullen was done, and she was sure she walked in on a similar argument. Granted, she had knocked, but the howling wind she was sure stopped her from hearing if the room was free, yet she barged in anyway. While she did feel slightly culpable, partly she was glad of the interruption if it was putting undue stress on the Commander. Maker knew he needed no more. 

Still, she looked at the door all the same, wondering of who that man even was at all. She hadn’t been spoken to in such a manner since she was a girl, and the afront would not go ignored, especially if the man was spending further time at the Keep. Constance would not let such hostility pass lightly. 

And if it was his grand idea to harass Cullen during his time here, Constance would have no choice but to interject, even if in some small way she agreed with him - at least on that front.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time she met him, some of the ire had fizzled away, cooling off the flames of rage. Anger did little to foster peace and had never served her in her life, neither with controlling her magic nor negotiating treaties. 

And even in such hostile situations as fostering ties of peace throughout Fereldan, she felt she did not slip up as much as when faced with that  _ man  _ again. 

Once more, her arms were full, only this time it was with a stack of books. The library was nearly empty, if not for Dorian drinking and reading on the second floor and Leliana at the top somewhere, roosting. He appeared behind her like an apparition, so silent she questioned herself for a moment when she jumped at the rumble of his voice, smacking her arm off the bottom shelf - 

“Strange taste in literature,” he drawled, “... for a  _ Mage. _ ” 

Taking the book she was trying to pry out from the bottom-most shelf, she added it to the short stack in her arms and straightened up - 

Only to be caught under that intense stare. His eyes were as black as coal. The first time she had thought it hostility for barging in on a conversation she was not privy to, but there was no such situation now, and still, his eyes burned, and he was entirely too close, invading her space so deeply that she could feel the heat from the breath through his nose. She found she leaned slightly back just to avoid it. 

Caught unaware, and with him referring to her as a Mage once more, Constance found herself floundering for a moment and had to take a second to gather herself, deciding her course of action. She hefted the books in her arms up, and placed them on a table not far from her. 

Diplomacy seemed the most obvious route. 

“I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” she said, placing the books down, feeling somewhat safer with the space now between them, “perhaps a formal introduction is necessary?” 

But he stepped closer again, and as he held her eyeline as he very pointedly stepped across the space she left between them, she took it as directly hostile though in polite company there was little she could say. It was not as though he was attacking her. Perhaps the man simply had no manners…? Even still, he ignored her question and slowly picked up one of the books by her side - 

“‘On Chantry Relation with Lyrium Mining - A Comprehensive History of Lyrium Trade in the Bannorn’,” he recited, and looked down to the pile, “and another on Dwarven Lyrium keeping techniques. Hmm…” 

“Er…  _ yes _ ,” she said lamely, gesturing at the books about them, “Lyrium mining and its role in the Chantry and in Magic has been an area of study that I am currently invested in,” 

Although that was not entirely true. She was mostly attempting to garner what little written texts there were about Lyrium and its effects, so she could better help Cullen with his affliction. 

The man said nothing, still watching her with too sharp eyes and holding the book as though daring her to take it. Frustrated at his intimidating silence, Constance found herself speaking to fill the space as though it would bring some normalcy to the situation - “It seemed… prudent in the current climate, what with the surge of Red Lyrium in the lands stretching from Fereldan to Orlais -”

“And perhaps on certain Templars as well?” He asked, and instantly she felt her cheeks fill with heat, knowing what he was referring to.

“I…” she took the book from his hand, though he did grip it to make it slightly more difficult, “ _ yes. _ ” 

And he smirked, knowing he caught her, “You’re helping him, aren’t you?” 

She looked about. Cullen’s current state was a closely guarded secret. Were the Inquisition’s enemies to know that the Commander of their armies was so compromised, they could quite easily use that as a ploy against them - one of the many,  _ many  _ arguments she presented when she begged him to start using Lyrium again. 

“I would advise you to keep it down,” she hissed, hugging the book to her chest, “and…  _ yes _ . I am. Though I share your sentiment.” 

“And what sentiment is that?”

“That you think he should continue taking it?”

“Quite perceptive,  _ Mage _ . You gathered that just from the look on his face, then?” 

She scoffed, “Am I wrong?”

“No,” he said, folding his arms, “though I am surprised that you think he should.”

Busying herself with placing the book on top of the small pile she had gathered seemed to even the space between them and for that she was a little grateful because his statement sent a hot rush of anger into her belly. Was he goading her on purpose? Was he trying to get a rise out of her? And if so, why? Did he simply hate mages? Would he not then find Dorian a much more entertaining sparring partner? 

Irritatingly, she found herself rising to it though she knew it was for naught, but never had someone spoken to her in such a way since she was a child. “And why should it? I am a healer, and to know the cause I am looking for the root of the pain.” 

“You won’t find it in that book, then,” he sneered, “nor will you in any of these.” 

“Read them all, have you?” 

“The Lyrium mining one I have, actually. Very little information is given on the effects of Lyrium on the Dwarven population or the Chantry use beyond providing it for their Templars, but  _ do  _ waste your time if you want a very boring history of trade agreements.”

Constance blew a breath of air through her nose, her cheeks hot,  _ humiliated _ . How had he garnered so much of what she was researching from… just looking at the books she was collecting? True, very little written texts existed of Lyrium and the study thereof, mostly stamped down by the Chantry and their closely guarded secrets. It was one of the reasons she wrestled with the daunting task of helping Cullen and indeed many of the injured Templars about the Keep. Reminding her of the difficulty of her task however, was less than helpful. 

Her words were tight and irritated when she spoke, and she wondered if it was noticeable, “I am  _ aware  _ of the lack of texts regarding the matter. It is often like trying to find a needle in a haystack - but if there is even a shred of something useful then it will  _ not  _ be wasted time, not if it helps,” 

He sneered, “Would you like to add a few more books to your pyre, then? If you are so content with burning yourself upon it?” 

Somewhere above someone laughed, then tried to cover it up with a cough. Dorian, probably. 

Diplomacy.  _ Diplomacy _ . Constance waved the comment off, though she did feel like stomping off to lick her wounds. Instead she squared up to his frame, folding her arms and leaning against the bookshelf, “You still have not introduced yourself. Are you content with referring to me as ‘Mage’? Or shall I recite my name for you again?” 

“I will call you  _ Mage  _ because that is what you  _ are _ .” He replied easily, and with such little room to misinterpret the statement. It was incredibly blunt, and once again she was stunned into silence at the audacity. 

_ Never  _ had she used the arm’s-length of her titles to her advantage.  _ Never  _ had she said them all out loud to remind someone of her rank or experience.  _ Never  _ had she thought of lording them over someone else, regardless of what they said. 

So she choked it back, knowing by the ease of what he said that there was little arguing about it, and it was a remarkable humiliation. To subject herself to such... 

“ _ Fine, _ ” she said tightly, “I have certainly been called worse,” as though that somehow would loosen the insult and give it less power. It didn’t. “And you are…?”

There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes… no, even more than a glimmer. He was enjoying it, relishing it in fact, when he did not even bother to lower his voice as he said, with no pause or circumstance, “You may call me  _ Ser _ ,” and then he added, referring to her again as, “...  _ Mage _ .” 

_ “I will not,” _ she hissed, all sense of decorum or diplomacy thrown away. His smile grew just that bit wider. The humiliation of all of it settled quite firmly on her shoulders, hotly burning in the pit of her stomach. He was trying to boil her down to little more than an ideal, a fragment of who she was and  _ she would not stand for it. _ She would not take part in his sordid little game. 

“I think you will,” he said, cockily leaning to the side, “soon enough.”

As she burned and gathered up her books to push past him, she stepped past his heated gaze with a frustrated huff and down the stairs into the cooler air of Solas’s study, barely making eye-contact with the Elven man who sort of knowingly rose a brow at her over the edge of his desk. 

What she did not see was Dorian leaning over his balcony to exchange an amused glance with Solas as she slammed the door to the barracks shut behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess I'll update it once a day then because I literally do not care anymore and just need to get rid. Of. This. Thing.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time she met him, she had given up all sense of diplomacy completely. 

It was a myriad of circumstances, not just down to his insistence that she refer to him as  _ Ser _ . Cullen had been especially sick and overwrought the last few nights and she was running on little to no sleep. What sleep she had was interrupted by nightmares of tunneling Darkspawn, and her mana stores were near depleted from trying to keep Cullen’s pain at bay. 

The Commander also flitted between insistence that he did not need her help, to sobbing over pain so great that he was temporarily blinded by it, to a rage and a fury over his confusion and waking nightmares that she was once again the target of his emotional outbursts. 

Physically, mentally, magically and emotionally, Constance was exhausted. 

‘Twas of course not Cullen’s  _ fault _ , and there was always the apology and the thanks after the fact, but she was growing weary of it, and desperate for aid. 

But where could she turn to? She could not speak of his condition with others although she was sure the Inquisitor’s closest were at least aware. She knew that Leliana and Cassandra were all too aware, having argued with her before on the matter and seeing Cullen in such a state first-hand when he collapsed at his desk, but who else…? She was not about to start speaking of it about the Keep, she could not breach his trust like that. 

Although that man,  _ Ser _ , seemed to know of it, and she pondered why Cullen told him at all, or if the man simply guessed for himself. 

Vivienne was a welcome warm sea away from the anxious terror of Cullen’s most recent outburst, and as she wearily sat herself down on the chair in front of the Senior Enchantress, with the sun shining down on them though the balcony and the distant sound of twittering birds and the recruits training in the courtyard, she felt suddenly so removed from Cullen’s rage that she briefly wondered if she had imagined it. 

“I am in need of an analgesic,” Constance said, leaning on the warm arm of the chair, resisting the urge to sink into it, “At the moment my stock is too low, and I cannot wait for the next round of orders. I was wondering if… you could spare the ingredients?” 

Vivienne poured her a cup of tea first, and then poured her own ponderously, “Hardly for you, I take it.”

“No, thankfully it is not for me.” 

She took a sugar-snap biscuit from a small plate and placed it on the saucer next to Constance’s cup to warm against the porcelain. Her tone was gentle and light when she asked over the rim of her tea; “... How is he?” 

Constance sighed, straightening in the chair, not wanting to get pulled into the warmth of the fabric any longer, and took the offering on the table by the saucer.  _ So she knew as well. _ “Not good. There is only so much healing he can take, even from a Spirit Healer like me. He… resists the magic, both in body and mind.” 

Vivienne hummed and brought her tea to her lap. Though she and Cullen bickered occasionally, she could tell that the Enchantress was fond of him - she was fond of most people within the Inquisitors circle, if suspicious of all of them. Constance found a quick friendship in the woman when they hashed it out and found most of their ideals not dissimilar. Both wished for the circles to be reinstated, both found the actions of the Orlesian Wardens to be regrettably poisonous, and both had been raised well within respective Circles. 

She found a small ocean of peace in Vivienne where she could often relax and be herself. The calm waters of the woman took her still. 

“I wonder if his withdrawal is related to that. Or… do you think he resists it because he does not want it?”

“I don’t know. Both, perhaps?”

“Well,” and the woman smirked, “there will be no resisting a potion, that is for sure, my dear. Allow me to create something, and perhaps make an addition to aid him with his sleep. Would you recommend it as his healer?” 

She wanted to cry at how grateful she was for her offering to prepare the potion. Constance could barely see straight, let alone begin working over an alchemical concoction. When she nodded and whispered her thanks, Vivienne did not say anything, only taking a delicate snap of the tiny biscuit in her hand between her teeth, and looked to her own cup to request she do the same. 

She was not used to asking for help, but such a time needed it. Cullen was not improving despite her best efforts, and she was running out of options. 

After a quiet chat about nothing in particular, Constance departed so Vivienne could get to work, who assured her the analgesic would be delivered by the evening. She left the lavish balcony and descended the stairs down into the Grand Hall, catching sight of Varric thumbing through a book by the fire on her left, and towards her,  _ he  _ was walking into the Hall. 

It had been some time since the Inquisitor decided to take the route of the Champion, so she wondered why  _ Ser  _ seemed to linger. 

The first time, her anger had been tempered with the idea that they were not properly introduced, and perhaps there was some sort of miscommunication. Now, however, she was still smarting over his ridiculous order, and just at the sight of him smirking at her and her own emotional exhaustion, already her blood was boiling beneath the surface. 

His eyes were careful and his stare strong as they passed each other, boring blackened holes into her, and at the quirk of his lip upwards into a sneer, she could hold her anger in check no longer. 

“Still here?” She asked, just about passing him, turning back to fold her arms while he faced her fully, “I thought the Inquisitor took another trainer, no?” 

_ You don’t belong here, _ was what she wanted to say.  _ You’re not welcome here.  _ _ I don’t want you here. _ __

Irritatingly, his smile widened, “Oh, haven’t you heard?” He said, “The Inquisitor decided to keep me on to help coordinate your Templars here. A recent request, I am sure you will understand the reason as to why you have not been informed.” 

_ No… it can’t be, _ she thought, as she wondered if he was lying to get a rise out of her. The end of her stomach filled with dread. Why was this fool of a man getting a promotion at all? How could Trevelyan not inform her? He  _ knew  _ of her issues with this man, and yet… 

“I see…” she said slowly, venomously, “well, congratulations on your recent appointment, then.” 

The thought of seeing him so much more around the keep made her itch for battle, but she could not go gallivanting off while there were Wardens to coordinate and when Cullen needed her. So she was stuck. Stuck with  _ him _ . 

Whether Cullen or the man in front of her, she didn’t know what was worse at that moment. Both? Neither?

“Indeed,” he breathed a laugh, and did that thing where he stepped all too close to her again, and she felt the electricity of her magic begin to surge through her palms and up her arms, “Tell me, Mage, what have I done to you to deserve such ire?” 

She was aware of Varric just beyond them looking up from his book. Of The Iron Bull who was approaching slow his pace just that little bit. 

“You know very well what you have done,” she spat. 

And he only grinned a little wider and leaned towards her just that bit more. “I am afraid I don’t.” 

“You… you asked me to call you…-” But she couldn’t say it. She refused to say it. 

“To call me,” his eyes glittered, “to call me,  _ what? _ If we are all to be working together, do you not think it fitting that you use my name?” 

“I  _ refuse  _ to refer to you as your title!” 

He merely shrugged. “But Ser  _ is  _ my name. I go by no other one. Do not think yourself as special, Mage. Everyone refers to me as such, even your Inquisitor.” 

She wanted to explode. She wanted to incinerate him to silence his chastising tone. She wanted to call him a bastard and stomp away from the infuriating conversation, but she stayed instead, the white-hot rage rolling in her belly at his sanctimonious smirk. 

“My name is not, ‘Mage’,” she grit out, knowing both Varric and Iron Bull were now actively listening in, “it is an affront that you call me as such. We are beyond Circles now-” 

“And yet you won’t refer to me by my name, how hypocritical,” he deadpanned back. 

And she found she had no answer at his outright refusal to see it from her angle, instead only twisting it back on her. But she chose this fight by questioning him, didn’t she? Was she not the one who turned back first to goad him in her emotional exhaustion? 

Was she looking for this argument? 

She wilted, only slightly, “Yes, well, I suppose we will have to be working together then, if that is the Inquisitor’s wish. I would request that you heed my asking to call me by my name, and then I will refer to yours in kind.” 

“Very well, Mage. I will keep that in mind.” 

There was a stalemate of sorts, as she glared back at him and neither of them moved. His blatant disregard felt like a slap, making it very clear that he didn’t recognise any sort of authority in her at all, and a terrible heat that she hadn’t known for the last week roared under the surface of her. But she would not shove away as she did the last time, so humiliated and disgusted at his order that she could barely speak, no. 

Though she wanted to. The fire in his eyes said he was enjoying their exchange far more than he should be, and more than she was at all. It jarred her to the core. 

“If you’re going to glare at me so sweetly,” he eventually said, and she prayed that the low timbre of his voice didn’t carry to Varric or Bull, “then perhaps we should take this elsewhere?” 

The flirtatious suggestion made her breath catch in the back of her neck and she looked away instantly, for fear that his burning gaze could physically burn her. Surely he was not saying…?

Riled and angry, uncomfortable, she turned away completely to his amused chuckle, her cheeks aflame as she walked unsteadily away, unsure of her own footing. Had he really just…  _ flirted  _ with her? After their line of conversation, if one could even call it that? 

She crossed the Keep, still with that fleeting sensation of his eyes on her back, following her across the battlements. The walk felt almost surreal. 

And as she stood in front of the door to Cullen’s office and put her hand on the iron ring, it took several deep, calming breaths to steel herself for what lay beyond. 

* * *

The Iron Bull was not known for his outward subtlety. 

His preference was always to watch, and perhaps twist a word in edgeways to steer a conversation towards a chosen direction, and it was only in these small actions of knowing people that truly belied his Ben Hassrath nature and training when he could so manipulate those around him with as little as a word. 

But sometimes it was easier to watch, and to know. He was seldom wrong in his summaries. 

So he was not subtle as he watched that man,  _ Ser _ , leering down the battlements at the Warden Commander in the courtyard, nor was he subtle when he moved the large bulk of his body closer to the man who was leaning over the ramparts, because, hey, he was kind of fucking hard to miss - but his summary, he felt, was correct. 

“We’re birds of a feather, you and me,” he said, following the man’s eyeline down directly to the Warden Commander, conversing with another Warden just beyond the tree near the stables. 

Ser said nothing. Didn’t even give him the fucking courtesy of a look. The action said without words -  _ I don’t find you a threat. _ Oh yeah, this guy was a real cunt. 

“... Is that so?” He drawled, and Bull’s nostrils flared. 

He liked Constance Amell. She seemed a decent sort, fiercely well-educated and ferocious with tactics, and with a wicked temper but one that always seemed to belie an idealistic nature. She was  _ good _ , and good people were hard to find in Thedas. She ran around the keep doing entirely too much, Bull often thought, and he was aware she was maintaining Cullen’s ill health. But he knew she was also self-righteous, and wouldn’t accept help even if it was offered. He left the care up to the friends she found in Leliana and Vivienne, and hoped that would be enough. 

It was obvious that this guy wanted to fuck her - he took way too much pleasure in starting harsh and spitfire fights with her, for a start. The look in his eyes afterwards was another. 

And Bull could feel that sort of sadistic tendency in Ser that he often felt in himself. If he was right, this guy was just as bad if not even worse than he was. 

He wasn’t entirely sure if he liked the idea of his weird, antagonistic and potentially aggressive affections aimed at Constance. 

“Can see you’ve been eyeing the Warden Commander,” Bull said easily, wondering if maybe he leaned in a little closer would the man move away, aaaaand he didn’t even acknowledge it, “can’t say I blame you. Mages are one thing, but Wardens are another thing completely.  _ Insatiable _ . They have a lust for life unlike anything I’ve seen before.” 

There was no reaction, and Bull frowned a little. Cold as ice, this guy. The silence stretched. 

The Warden Commander continued her talk, placing her hand on the other Warden’s shoulder. Sure, Bull had thought about it. He’d wager a fair few people in the Inquisition thought about it too, especially Cullen, who could barely look her in the eye the first few weeks she’d joined their ranks. He wondered how hard it would be to get that uptight, self-righteous nature to melt away into the mess of sex and pleasure. If she was anything like Cassandra, it wouldn’t take anything at all, but she was less into the frivolity of love and courtship than the older woman was. 

So it did cross his mind, but then he thought that way about nearly everyone he met. 

Maybe not about Ser, not yet. Too much of a huge fucking wall there… and Bull had a feeling that Ser and he were on the same page when it came to knot-tying and a bit of slap-and-tickle. Bull could switch to the opposite end of that if needed, but he doubted this guy would. 

Across the courtyard, the Warden saluted at his commander and walked towards the stables. Constance took a moment to gather herself and made her way to what Bull presumed was Cullen’s office. 

“Those are some… pretty fiery arguments you two have been having lately,” Bull said, after the silence stretched and he thought to himself,  _ ah fuck it, blame him, see what happens.  _

The human hummed in agreement, “Yes, she can be quite antagonistic,”

Bull resisted the urge to laugh. Oh this guy was  _ good _ . Those were some pretty impressive deflection tactics, and he presumed his lack of engagement meant he didn’t find Bull one bit threatening, and he didn’t have any interest in speaking to him either, possibly because there was no attraction there. 

“Lot of people here on her side,” Bull said, pitching his voice lower, “watch your step.” 

It was a warning and a threat all rolled into one. 

“I’m going to fuck her,” came the easy reply, without a single change in demeanour, “within an inch of her life.” 

_ Oh yeah, _ Bull thought worriedly, knowing his summary was now confirmed.  _ Sadist. _ Ser turned to look at him with sure eyes as black as hell and shrugged. Presumably with no Constance to watch, Ser turned his back and walked away, back to the rest of the Templars in the tower at the other end of the keep. 

He sure hoped Constance liked pain, because this guy seemed to offer a whole world of it. 

Templars were a strange sort, he thought. Plenty of them were sadists, sure, with some sort of righteous vendetta against mages, and with the way Ser referred to her as  _ Mage _ , Bull was sure that was the root of it. Cullen seemed to be one of the few good ones, but he could hardly be called a Templar anymore. It wasn’t surprising that yet another one seemed to offer that particular brand of sex. He just hoped the kind of sex he offered was the safe sort and not the other kind. 

Because Constance didn’t seem… against it? She was kinda hard to read when it came to sex. Plenty of people liked and flirted with her, but she was either oblivious or too polite to reciprocate, or too tied up in her own work that she just didn’t consider it. It was probably more of the latter.  _ But…  _ she really came  _ alive  _ when she argued with that Templar, with her face all hot and her eyes sparking and defiant. 

The humiliation kind of suited her. If Bull was totally honest. He could get what Ser was doing. 

Still… Bull didn’t trust Ser. Not yet. And even though it was entertaining to watch Constance get all hot and righteous when arguing with him, they had a whole fucking keep full of soldiers to think about, and Ser needed to keep it under wraps for a bit. 

And, he wasn’t entirely sure if Ser wouldn’t go out of his way to force her. No, he’d say something to Cullen before this whole thing got too out of control. Spin it as if he was pissed about the way Ser spoke to her, didn’t use her title, some shit like that. 

He could say it without saying it. Cullen would listen because he cared, and because he liked Constance too. 


	4. Chapter 4

The fourth time, the fourth real time she spoke to him, she tempered again, but it was mostly out of exhaustion. She wanted to be done with it. She made the choice to be peaceful. 

They bickered constantly beforehand, and sometimes over the most mundane things. Constance was struggling to find a point of common interest that could perhaps tie them together and found nothing at all. He seemed to go out of his way to challenge her at every possible opportunity. 

Terribly, she found herself starting the argument after particularly hard days, and even began to question herself and her own ideals. 

And her struggle to find a common point between Templars and their addictions still weighed heavily with each passing day as Cullen got sicker, and sicker still. She wished she did not find so much energy in arguing with Ser, that she could devote her time to things more important, but it was difficult when the texts she read did not answer her questions and she felt useless. 

It was only when examining two Templars who returned from the Fallow Mire with the same affliction, that a glimmer of hope appeared. 

“I can assure you, Ser Thomàs, that we will not be taking your leg today or any day.”

“But… the blistering, Commander, is it not-” 

“I can understand your hesitation, but have faith. You will be fine.” 

Ser Thomàs and Ser Delrin both returned with a nasty case of trench-foot, probably from wading through the murky waters of the mire for days on end without a change of clothing. The skin blackened and the wounds became so infected with disease that any other person would have deemed them gangrenous, and set about an amputation. 

Not Constance Amell. She was certain she could heal it. And so she set about the task on Ser Thomàs just as she did with Delrin some hours before, cleaning and clearing the infection, removing the deadened skin and healing what was left. It was by no means pleasant, but so little things in life were. 

Pain comes, and then it goes, if one is lucky. The young man was in agony, but he tried to keep it in, at least, and was exhausted when it was over. She assured him that she needed only a few more things to check, and asked him to strip to his smalls so she could check the glands about his body for further infection. The poor man was so tired that he did not find it in himself to be embarrassed, and did as she asked, laying back on the bed to allow her tender ministrations. 

She eyed the starburst scar in the centre of his chest. A similar one existed on Delrin. And Cullen, too. Not all exactly the same, but not dissimilar. “Ser Thomàs, might I ask you a personal question?” 

She pushed on the hard muscle of his stomach down towards his groin. No wince, no pain, no swelling, no infection thus far. “Go ahead.” 

“That scar,” she nodded towards his chest, “how did you get it?”

He looked down, bewildered. “Mmm, which one?” 

She laughed. He was a myriad of scars. So was Delrin. So was Cullen. She pointed to the one on his sternum, offset slightly to the left, “This one.” 

He took a moment to look at it and lay back down with a shrug, “I uh… I’m not sure. Training exercise, I think…? Why?” 

“I just…” she brushed him off, “I saw a similar one before.” 

“Templars have a lot of scars,” he said simply, and she hummed in agreement. 

She finished up and gave him a moment to put his clothes back on before checking his pain levels again. He seemed fairly alright, tired, relieved his leg did not need to be amputated. It was good enough for her. Ser Thomàs thanked her wearily before she departed. 

As she left, she pondered the scar and its origins, and the curious nature of the lack of knowledge behind them all. Three Templars, all with the same scar, none of them knowing the how or the why behind it.  _ A training exercise, _ Thomàs said.  _ Got it when I was a Templar recruit, I think, _ Cullen said. Delrin had no idea at all. 

It was more than coincidence. Three made a pattern. She needed more information. 

Standing in front of the Templar’s office… in front of  _ Ser’s _ office, she sighed deeply. It was standard procedure to inform their coordinator of their current state, she knew that, but she was dreading the conversation. Dreading facing him again and potentially having another argument just for the sake of it.  _ Oh, _ but did his smirk make her blood boil. She would have to keep her mouth in check if she wanted to escape unscathed. 

_ In and out, _ she thought to herself as she knocked and then pushed the door open upon the answer.  _ Just inform him of their situation, and leave. _

He was standing behind a desk in the small, near claustrophobic room. 

“Good evening,” she said, blushing hotly when her voice broke, and closed the door behind her with a snap. Could she go just one conversation with him without making a show of herself? 

Those black, piercing eyes annoyingly rooted her to the spot, but at least there was a desk between them now. He seemed pleased to see her, but then he always did in that smirking, smart way of his. 

“I’ve just seen to Ser Thomàs and Ser Delrin after their expedition to the Fallow Mire. There is no need for amputation this evening. I have managed to clear most of the infection away, I hope. I will return on the morrow to check on them, just to be safe.” 

_ Just that and leave. _ But he didn’t say anything. Instead he turned to the side and paced to the window just at the side of the room, leaning against the ledge and glaring out into the evening beyond. 

And the silence stretched. And stretched. And her frustration with it grew until it was near painful. 

Nothing, not a word. Like she hadn’t even entered the room, or said anything at all. Why did he have to make every conversation awkward? Why did he have to ignore her when she was speaking, and then goad her when she was not? What was his  **_problem?_ **

Eventually, she offered her hand as her frustration reached its peak, “So… are you going to acknowledge that I have said something?” 

He didn’t turn from the window. “What do you want? A pat on the back for doing what was asked of you?”

The fury raced up her throat, “I-” she spluttered, “I did not mean  _ that! _ But at least some sort of acknowledgement of my presence in the room would have been nice?” 

“Did Thomàs and Delrin not thank you?” He asked, and then turned fully towards her. 

“Of course they did, but that is not what I asked-”

“Then why come looking for it from me?” 

“I…” but she stopped, red-faced again. She was not looking for his praise like some mooing apprentice after the newest recruit. And yet… she was standing in his office, angry at him for not… saying…  _ anything. _ Was that not what she wanted? His silence? 

He stepped forward, eyes glimmering in amusement, “You want… what? For me to pat you on the head and say  _ ‘good girl’ _ ? You should not have offered your help so freely if you were not willing to do it,” 

Oh, she did not like the pleasure he took in saying the words  _ ‘good girl’ _ . “I was more than willing to help. I did not come here for anyone’s ‘thanks’,” she insisted, eyes snapping. 

He chuckled, and he was close enough that she could feel the rush of air pass over her from his nose. He was a full head taller than her so that she had to crane back just to look him in the eye, and it was infuriating. 

“Why is every conversation like this?” She asked eventually, her rage boiling to the surface, “Why must we both endure these constant arguments? Do you take some perverse pleasure in rattling me?” 

But she knew the answer to that already. His smirk quirked his smooth black mustache upwards, and he reached up to point between her eyes, “You get this cute little knot right here, when you’re annoyed,” 

She slapped his hand away out of pure reflex, and though he did not she still demanded, “Do not  _ touch _ me-!” 

Only he caught her hand in his, fingers clasping hard around her wrist. There was a fast struggle, one she could barely keep up with when she gasped and raised her other hand to slap him and he caught that one too, moving forward into her, raising her arms above her head and pinning them and her against the door. 

Electricity crackled in her palms, raced down her arms and into her chest. He noticed, with a flick of his eyes. 

_ “Just try it,” _ he goaded, his smirk showing teeth, “I dare you, Mage.  _ Go on _ , try to cast a spell against me. See what happens.” 

It took her years to train her discomfort of casting spells out, to learn how to wield her magic naturally after the oppression of the Circle. She was lucky to be at a place in her life where it came to her nearly as natural as breathing. And yet she paused, as her heart hammered and her breath came quick. He was a Templar. A man who trained Templars. And he had her by the wrists. Her magic shrank back in on herself, for a brief moment, as she became that girl again.

She breathed heavy. So did he. There was a smile to his mouth. His eyes were black,  _ black _ , there was a near-physical sensation as they travelled the length of her face to settle on her open mouth. And she could see his too, the smooth tan of his bottom lip, parted,  _ wet  _ \- 

And there was a knock on the door behind her, reverberating through her body as he dared to close the gap between their mouths in what she presumed would be a searing kiss, but one that never happened. His hands tightened around her wrists for a moment before he let go and pushed off her and the door, and she floundered in the sudden space between them. 

The report from the person beyond the door was a quick series of words, ones she didn’t follow because as soon as he was finished and out of the room, she was gone with not even a look back, feeling his eyes on her the entire way back to her room in the keep. The evening air was sharp, but it did nothing to cool her off. 

Had he nearly just... ? Had they just…? 

Did that happen? 

One minute at each other’s throats, and then the next…? 

When she finally stepped into her room in the keep, she leaned back against her door and clutched at her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. 

All that arguing, his smirk, his fire in his eyes… the flirting - it was real, he meant it, didn’t he? No, surely she was not imagining it. He tried to… he tried to kiss her! 

He would have, had no one knocked on the door. 

_ She wanted him to. _

Her knees buckled.  _ She wanted him to. _ Constance made her way to her bed, heart still in her throat, body hot.  _ She wanted him to. _ She could not deny her attraction to him, nor could she deny his to her, any longer. She had furiously pushed away all and any advance that came her way since the Blight, and he quite literally pushed past all of that.  _ She wanted him to.  _

Was she crazy? Did she truly want to kiss a man who infuriated her so? Who had no respect for her boundaries, and seemingly no respect for her either? 

Why did that ignite such a  _ fire  _ within her? 

What was wrong with her?

She dropped to her knees, flopping her front on the bed, mind racing. She wove her hand through the thigh split in her dress, pushing fingers down into her smallclothes, and touched herself at the thoughts of him being savage with her, finishing what he started, in the same position as she was on her front with her hands clasped tightly in his fist behind her as he took her hard against the desk in his office. 

She bit down on the duvet under her face and groaned as her orgasm took her fast. A violent thought, of him leaving bruises and making her scream and cry and beg for him to  _ stop, please, stop. _ But in her mind, he didn’t, and the thought of it left her hot and aching and coming on her own against the insistent push of her fingers. 

She waited for the tremors to die down. She felt like it took hours. Weeks. 


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, Constance was unsure of the ground she was treading, and nearly more of the work she was doing as she came to a sorry conclusion. 

She would have to ask Ser for help. 

Cullen was… unnaturally confused that day, but luckily not to the point of anger. He drifted, not really listening to anything anyone was saying, but there and present, and that was _something_. Better, at least, than sobbing in agony or lost in a delusion. Constance took it for what it was worth, and thought back to the scar on his chest. The same one on Thomàs. The same one on Delrin. 

There was a connection there, and she had to be sure. She would have to ask the rest of the Templars. She could not access them without Ser. 

If it was the key to helping Cullen, and potentially other Templars suffering the same fate, she had to ask. She poured over books and biographies in the morning to find mention of something, anything, but found nothing. She returned to Delrin and Thomàs to check their wounds, but Ser was not there. She _had_ to ask. It itched at the back of her mind. 

She burned at the thought, and it was a potent cocktail of feelings. Shame. Anger. Disgust. Fear. Desire. All a terrible bunch of demons that she did not feel like tangling with today. 

So it took her hours to work up the courage, and found he was not in the tower after dark. One of the Templars mentioned he slept above the requisitions office, and Constance flitted to and from the idea of disturbing him in the middle of the night. Her hunches were never usually wrong, and there was something to the scars, something tying them all together. Even if it wasn’t the key, any understanding of Templars would surely be of benefit… 

An awareness of the time of day hit her as she stood outside the requisitions office and glanced around to see if anyone was watching her in the dark, but she knocked on the door regardless. If she did not ask, she would let it fester and Cullen was not blessed with a lot of time between his symptoms. 

There was no answer, but the door was unlocked, and she pushed inside to the glow of the embers in the hearth, the warmth hitting her dead on. 

“Hello…?” She called out, closing the door behind her, hoping perhaps he was not there. 

“Enter,” and her heart jumped a little as she heard the call above, looking up and to the left to see some lanterns burning there on the mezzanine. It was his voice. There was no mistaking it. 

So she trudged up the stairs with her heart in her ears, to see him sitting at a table next to some burning candles, writing something in a book. He turned to face her with a smirk and stood, folding his arms haughtily. 

There was a bedroll in the corner, under the low ceiling there. Dotted around the mezzanine there were large hooks, chains and rings in the floor and hanging from the ceiling, as though the space was once used for an abattoir, though it looked like the requisitions officer made some use of them. There was some neatly bound rope just some few feet away from the bedroll and a small foot-chest. The candles made it look more comfortable than utilitarian. 

She wondered if Ser was claustrophobic, and doubted it somewhat. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this nightly visit?” He drawled. Constance desperately, desperately wanted to roll her eyes. 

“I have…” she swallowed, knowing an argument was imminent, feeling it settle in the air like a thick cloak, “come with a request.” 

If she did not play her cards correctly, she could walk away with nothing. 

His eyes were strong, heady, “Oh? This should be good.” 

She sighed, low and deep. She was not relishing asking him. Especially not considering the previous night, their argument and his… attempt at kissing her. The interruption. Her flying away like a frightened bird. No one was painted in a good light in this picture. 

“You are aware that I have been helping the Inquisition’s Commander withdrawing from Lyrium,” she started, “you know that it has… not been easy on him, and that I have been researching Lyrium and its effects.” 

“I am,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other, “allow me to stop you here, then, so I can let you know that any information I give, comes with a price.” 

Taken aback, she uttered, “I did not take you as someone who wants for gold. I don’t believe I have to remind you that a man’s life hangs in the balance.” 

He shrugged, “It all depends on your willingness to pay. Ask your question, and I will name my price.” 

This was not how she was expecting the conversation to go, and it left her feeling uneven. But she pressed on, “I noticed something… when healing Thomàs and Delrin yesterday. Something I have noticed on Cullen, too. A scar,” she pointed to her sternum, “in the center of their chests.” 

Something changed in his gaze. It was subtle, but it was there. A glimmer of understanding. “You’ve seen many shirtless Templars, then?” He teased. 

But she ignored it, pushing, chasing that glimmer, “They are not all exactly the same, and I understand that many Templars come with a multitude of scars but… this is more than coincidence.” 

“And you want to know if I have the same scar?” He asked, but something in his eye told her that he did, in the cockiness to his stance, the ease in the way he looked at her. 

“Yes, but,” she stepped forward, her line of questioning changing, evolving with the situation. She had not expected him to know more, initially she wanted his permission to speak with his men but if he knew _more_ than the same answers she had so far received _-_ “I want to know the significance of it. Three men I have talked to have this same scar, and none of them are sure how they recieved it.”

His smirk then was not enough to rile her, in the excitement of shared information. 

But his words might have, “... You certainly are a clever Mage.” 

He leaned against the table, gesturing around the room, the low hanging ceiling, the many chains and ropes that hung down into the space. “You have asked two questions. I am feeling uncharacteristically generous; I will give you the first one for free. _Yes_ , I have that scar, right here,” he said, pointing to his chest, and his voice pitched lower, “and I could show you, if you like.” 

Constance cleared her throat, her face burning, “Th-that will not be necessary.”

But he didn’t press, thankfully, “Shame.” 

He dropped his faux forlorn expression to the book on the table, closing it with a snap. “You will be pleased to know that I have the information you need. And it is all here, in this book,” he held it up, “my memoir.”

Her heart started beating faster. A real account was so much better than anecdotal evidence, but then, she was skeptical of such information. “A memoir? You remember it then? How you got that scar, when all other men can’t recall…?”

At that, he sneered, and her hackles raised, “I do recall. I recall it with perfect clarity. I have the unfortunate privilege of being blessed with near-perfect memory. Eventually the…'' and he frowned, looking to the floor, something she had not seen him do before, “ _Lyrium_ , will steal that from me. So I have recorded my life here… and in several other tomes scattered about Thedas. Mistrust it if you wish, I care little.” 

She tumbled over his admission for a moment, wondering if she should in fact trust his apparent hyperthymesia, and reeling at the idea that he offered so much information all at once when he had previously been so closed. If it was true and he did have such clarity in his memory, then he was right, the Lyrium would see to that in a few years. It was… sad. But there was clearly a catch to it all… she wanted to avoid discussing his price, if she could, and perhaps glean more. 

“The answer you seek is in this book. I know the exact page detailing how I got that scar, and how other Templars got theirs as well.” 

“It is a… ceremonial scar, then? Some sort of ritual?” She asked. 

“You will find out for yourself,” and his smirk grew, “but it will cost you. Pay my price, and you can read through this at your leisure.” 

“All of it?”

“If you are so curious about me. But I warn you, there may be parts of this that will make your hair curl. Do not forget that I was a Templar once, and I hunted your kind for many years before this Inquisition.” 

Still… to suddenly know such much about him and indeed about Templar life seemed incredibly promising, though she wondered if she could stomach the reality of it. _Very well,_ she thought, _I’ll bite,_ though it killed her to put that power in his hands even if she had the power to refuse. “... Your price, then.” 

There was a flash of his teeth. He was pleased. Very pleased. Her anxiousness grew, especially at the fact that they had yet to descend into another sparring match. Paying him the gold was not the issue, but there was something to his demeanour… it was not gold he was after. 

“The price is quite simple,” he said, placing the book face down on the table and meeting her eyes evenly, his gaze strong and dark beneath his browline, “... I want a kiss.” 

For a moment, a loud buzzing noise filled her ears as the blood drained out of her face. Then all at once it flushed back, leaving her dizzy. “W-well, I am sure,” she rushed out as she floundered for words, “that I could find _someone_ within the Inquisition to pay this price-”

_“-From you,”_ he cut across her, silencing her instantly. 

The dizziness was quickly replaced with anger, though the embarrassment was still there. His earlier flirting had been suggestive and easy to brush off, but _this_ was quite blatant. Just as his insults were. She thought of being so close to the information she needed and how he could give so freely and just as quickly take it away. 

A rage broiled beneath her then, threatening to grow just as it had all those other times. “Need I remind you,” she hissed, “that a man’s life hangs in the balance?” 

“Indeed,” he sneered, “seems a paltry price to pay then, does it not?”

“Then why ask it at all?” 

His gaze was steady, “Because I want it. And you want what I have.” 

Her face was hot as it washed over her, the reality of it all. The previous night, he removed her power from the situation by pinning her against the door, and now he was putting it back in her hands and still taking it away at the same time by dangling the carrot over her head. 

If she wanted to know what he knew, she _had_ to pay his price. She could easily take the book from him by force; she was a powerful mage, one who fought Templars before… but was she willing to fight him for something that did not belong to her in the first place? How would she explain that to the Inquisitor? How would she live with herself? 

How had she ever thought this man a fool? Infuriating, yes, ornery, yes, _despicable_ , yes. But an idiot? 

And how many other Templars with hyperthymesia existed out in Thedas? Not many, she would wager. Though he could be lying to her, there was something to his eyes that doubted that somewhat. She… trusted he was telling the truth, though she was loath to hand herself over to him on a silver plate without a fight first. 

And she would not… hand herself over completely. She had some semblance of dignity. 

Constance stepped closer, folding her arms under her bust like a petulant child, _“Fine,”_ she croaked, “I will pay your stupid price.” 

His eyes impossibly darkened as he smiled, and he stood a little straighter in anticipation as she approached. 

The man was… regrettably handsome, she thought as she stepped up to him. His long black hair was tied in a tidy bun behind his head, and he looked as if he took great care in his appearance. From the sleek shine of his beard to the cleanliness of his skin, his clothes and his armour, he gleamed. His tan skin was golden brown, free of blemishes, and his thick, dark lashes stood out in contrast. She could see these things because she moved slowly, like she was approaching a dangerous animal, and took her time in reaching up to cup her hand over a warm, black-bearded cheek.

And his eyes were a deep, dark, coal black. His pupils nearly disappeared completely within them. 

Her heart hammered, especially as she considered clawing a bit of that power that he took back, as his eyes never once left hers and became hooded when her thumb absentmindedly brushed across a high cheekbone. He made no effort to move down, which she was glad for, as she rose up onto her toes. 

She would not hand herself over completely.

To press her lips softly, slowly against the skin of his opposite cheek. It took only the gentlest nudge of her hand, and he followed, his breath catching at the press of her mouth, and it was _that_ which sent a thrill through her belly. 

Triumphantly she pulled away, thinking of what she was going to say, the words on the tip of her tongue, something like _I have paid your price, now you pay mine,_ or, _next time you should specify where your price goes -_

But found he gave her little chance, when his hand cupped the back of her neck roughly, and his eyes were dark and fierce when he ground out, _“Kiss me like you mean it,”_ before pulling her in to bring their mouths together. 

Constance drew a sharp, harsh breath through her nose and made some sort of ridiculous squeak at the press of his mouth on her, at the scratch of his beard and the strength of his unyielding hand on the back of her neck, and the other at her waist, pressing her insistently to him. 

She pushed at his chest, but he didn’t relent, and he stepped her back against the railing of the mezzanine, leaning over onto her until she felt she’d fall backwards if he let her go. For a moment, she melted. Melted, at the warm press of his lips and the smell of skin, like the air after a lightning storm, and her eyes rolled. 

And then his tongue was in her mouth, and she melted further still, the taste of him like a full-bodied wine. Too much. She had never felt quite so taken until she had his hand gripping the back of her neck and his tongue, pushing into her mouth and a groan, coming out of him that went straight to her knees.

_Get off me,_ was one thought, and the other was _oh Maker, fuck me._ She couldn’t decide which one she wanted to choose. He certainly trumped her for physical strength, but she could throw him off with magic if she had to, even though she didn’t want to start throwing spells around such a small space, nor did she know if she wanted to break the spell between them. 

Perhaps he sensed it in her. Some rise, under the surface of her skin, just at the suggestion of throwing him off with a spell. Because he turned her, roughly, pressing her against the railing with the full length of his body, and the edges of his hand glowed sharply white as he clapped it around her throat. Constance choked from the myriad of things. Of the grip of his hand. Of the feeling of his hard body pressing fully against the back of her after years of no physical contact. Of the press of his erection between the cleft of her arse. Of her magic being pushed down, down, without being able to control it. 

He buried his nose in the back of her hair, and she heard him inhale. “I’ve been thinking about this for entirely too long,” he whispered. 

His grip tightened, and she reached up to grasp his arm, questioning why her body reacted with a hot flash of pleasure at the increase of pressure. She should not be enjoying this, and yet… she was. Her knees trembled. Her core clenched with heat. 

She defeated an Archdemon and raised Amaranthine back from the brink of collapse. She should not be enjoying being handled like a ragdoll. The shame and desire washed over her in simultaneous waves. She pulled against his arm. 

“How does it feel, Mage, to have your magicks denied by a competent Templar?” He asked. She choked, whimpered, struggled. 

“Get… off… me,” she eventually managed to say. 

He pushed further against her, a little harder, she could feel him rub his erection against her in a tight half-circle. 

“You want to _stop_ ?” He asked, and she pressed her toes into the floor when he cupped his hand over her mound, gasping, “Are you _sure_ you want to stop?” 

She couldn’t answer, too lost in the sudden wave of sensations and the pressing of his fingers up. Her body was swept away on a rocky sea of pleasure and need, beating through her fiercely, pounding insistently between her legs. _No,_ she thought, _I do not want to stop._ _But I should._ Instead, she gasped and arched against him, and he made some half-helpless groan near her ear as well. 

“I’m going to fuck you, Mage,” he said, rotating his fingers up against her with each swear, “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk anymore. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t see straight anymore.”

She moaned, and the sound was thin around his hand still around her throat. 

“If that sounds like something you can’t handle, I’ll give you a word. You say it, and we stop, but we stop completely. Do you understand?” 

His hand between her legs pushed past the slit of her dress, and then his fingers were pressed against her smallclothes, pushing them up between soaked lips and she came fully up onto her toes. 

“I said; do you understand?” 

It was the last vestige of power she had left. 

“..Y-ye-s,” she just about managed, trying to breathe. 

“Good girl,” he husked, pulling her away from the railing. 


	6. Chapter 6

The word he gave her was ‘phylactery’. 

She would have slapped him, were she able to use her arms. It was another insult piled high onto the already high stack of insults. 

He made short work of the hooks at the back of her dress with his free hand, the other around her neck he was using to steer her towards the low ceiling with the rings on it. The dress clasped free, and he shucked it down her arms until she brought it the rest of the way, and he unlaced her thin bandeau with a flick of his finger, flinging it across the room. Her dress got lost somewhere, and she clutched at his arm for something grounding to hold on to as he slipped her smallclothes down her legs and they caught on her delicate shoes before she kicked them off. 

And then she was naked, and with that choking hand he moved her about the space like she was a toy. Somewhere, he turned her around, his kiss hard, his tongue pushing past her lips into her mouth, and they both worked on the clasps of his coat, the pauldron on his shoulder, and that was all he allowed as they stripped him to his shirt. 

Ser grabbed her by the jaw and forced her to the ground. She _burned_ , at his commands. _On your knees. Move here._ **_Crawl._ ** _Hands above your head._

Never had anyone ordered her around before. 

Before she was even aware, they were under the low ceiling and he was tying her wrists together with a quickness that made her wonder where he got such practice. On her knees, he drew her up by her hands until he looped the knot he made through a low hanging iron ring on the low ceiling. 

And she hung there, the knot so tight that her knees just barely touched the floor, and she had to brace herself either by pulling her arms, or by leaning her weight on her shins and feet. It wasn’t meant to be comfortable. And he was on his knees in front of her, hands grasping her waist, roving, tongue in her mouth. 

His beard scratched her sternum as he pulled her up by the waist to meet his mouth in hot, open mouthed kisses on her chest. The iron ring clanged on its hold as she jerked and pulled as a counterpoint against the _unspeakable_ pleasure of his wet mouth around her nipple. His tongue was blatant, and warm, sucking, releasing her with a luridly wet _pop_.

And this went on, and _on_ , until her trembling increased so much that she could barely hold her arms straight, her core clenched and throbbed so tightly, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. He would release one nipple from the torture of his mouth, only to fixate on the other, circling with his tongue, sucking until it was swollen and distended, nibbling to the point almost of pain, kissing down to the underside of her breast and then back up just to continue. Over and over. 

It was maddening torture. Her head fell back between her shoulders, but she couldn’t stop the arch upwards into his face. 

Until finally she could take no more, her nipples swollen and so sensitive that the very air felt irritating when he released one to torture the other, and she cried out, half-crazed, “Maker _stop_ , please! Stop, I ca-an’t!” 

His amused chuckle made her leg twitch with the thoughts of kicking him. 

But he did release the nipple in his mouth after pressing the broad flat of his tongue against it in a rough lick that felt like entirely too much. 

“You want me to stop?” He asked, his hand on the back of her neck urging her head up to look him in the eye. His expression was incredulous, “At this stage, _now_ you want me to stop?”

Her breath was rough; she cried out when his free thumb and forefinger took a hold around her still wet nipple and pinched with light pressure, tugging her breast up. “I gave you a word, Mage. Say the word if you want me to stop.” 

And then he alternated with that. With a hand on the flat of her back and the other pinching and tugging at her breasts, he continued with his mouth on one and his hand on the other. She felt like crying. Tears welled up in her eyes. She struggled towards and away from him, but couldn’t go anywhere. She should not have looked down to see the utterly erotic sight of him at her breasts with the paitence of a scholar, because as her core clenched and beat with the beat of her heart she wondered if she could orgasm like this, with such stimulation. 

Eventually, he released her, rubbing the tip of his nose against her breast and saying, “Do you know how I know you don’t want me to stop, Mage?” 

Panting, dazed, unable to think with the feeling of the air and the subtle brush of his shirt against her swollen nipples, all she could do was make some questioning noise against the roof of her mouth. 

She felt his hand swipe up a wet trail on her inner thigh, and he whispered, close to her face, “Because you’re so wet that it’s starting to roll down your legs, my dear.” 

He brought his hand up to show her, and she could see the wet slick on his forefinger and inner palm. Naked, embarrassed, Constance jerked her head away and shut her eyes, seeing stars when she tried to close her legs and even that pressure felt like too much. 

“So sensitive,” he continued, “just from having your nipples played with. Are you so starved for touch that even _this_ is getting you off? How long has it been for you, Mage?” 

When she didn’t answer, he moved in closer, and asked even quieter, “Unless… this is your first?”

She trembled at the softness in his voice. His eyes were warm, deep. “No… I… I have had a lover… during the Blight.”

“Over ten years ago?” He laughed, and it did not take much coaxing for him to part her legs with the blade of his hand. The kiss he pressed against her mouth felt more like a distraction as his other hand cupped her breast, pressing a thumb against the over-sensitive bud. “Might as well be untouched, then.” 

The gentle rub of his fingers between her legs felt like he'd thrown her into a furnace, and her whole body jerked as she cried out. He sneered and laughed and pressed her against him by her back, and he rubbed and parted her with the tips of his fingers, rubbing back and forth, grazing her clit, teasing her opening, back and forth, and his mouth returned to its torture of her chest. With her arms bound as they were, there was little she could do. 

The dual sensations of his rubbing fingers and sucking mouth, the pain/pleasure in her breasts - her voice was keening, her arms pulled and pulled against the rope and the ring, dragging her body up towards his mouth. 

And he whispered something like; “So fucking wet for me,” and the sound was so raw and so visceral that her body climbed towards an orgasm that she couldn’t control, wild and raging like an unchecked forest fire. 

But then he pulled away, slowly, and as the broiling orgasm never reached its peak she felt so exposed and so needy at the space left between them as he edged away from her to stand that a tear did escape her. 

His expression was hot, a high rise of colour in his cheeks, his mouth wet as he stood and removed his shirt, held her gaze as he unlaced his breeches and toed off his boots. His skin was a flawless golden brown, not a freckle, not a mole, but the same myriad of scars all Templars seemed to suffer from, including the starburst just on his sternum. And he was all tight muscle and thickly corded veins. A thick trail of black hair stretched from his belly button down past the sharp vee of his hips, and she felt her mouth water at the thought of that jutting hipbone rising to her touch. 

The way he held her gaze, was haunting. Hypnotising, as he shucked his trousers off and then his smallclothes, and she let her gaze wander down - 

To the huge, erect cock between his legs. To the hand he wrapped around it, and the tight stroke he made with his fist. 

Her breath stuttered to a stop in her throat. He was big, _big_ , and she wasn’t-

“I won’t give you all of this at once,” he said, stroking, eyes aflame, “not until you’re ready.” 

It was a reassurance, of a sort, and she wondered, tingling at the prospect, if she would be so ready and how that would be decided. He approached and knelt down behind her, she could feel his fist still stroking his cock against her back, his hand low on her belly to pull her towards him. There was little choice that she had in the matter, and the thought thrilled her. Terrified her. Humiliated her. 

His nose in her hair. Lips on the back of her neck. All the hair on her body stood on end. She whined, embarrassed at her own state, her face and chest red, nipples and breasts pulled taut by her bound arms and so sensitive in the cool air. 

His cock was hot and thick as it slipped up against her, sliding easily between her folds with the gathering moisture there. She arched, and he held her, making some choked noise in the back of his throat as he slipped, slipped, slipped. The sound was obscene, a wet click, her opening pulsed wildly in want for him to fill her, and she remembered his promise - _I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk anymore._ She certainly hoped so. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take. 

As the blunt head of him pressed into her, and she heard him grind out the words, “ _Unh,_ So _wet_ ,” as her head fell back against his shoulder, the hand not on her belly reached up to roughly grasp her breast, his teeth grazed her earlobe, and he pushed. Filling her. The hand on her belly moved down, and she sobbed as his fingers rubbed and spread her further, to allow more of him, and more - 

And he didn’t let up. Thrusting up and in, fingers rubbing circles on her nipple, and the other between her folds, lips fastened to the side of her neck in a searing kiss, thrusting, fucking her, fucking her hard, and quick - 

And she came gracelessly with such force that she bucked and he held her, buried in her, still fucking with that relentless pace, rubbing circles while she contracted wildly and her sobbing intensified, her arms burning, _burning with fire_ as it went on and on and on -

Before his hand on her breast snapped up to her neck, sharply white and shoving her magic back down within her until the wave crested and crashed, her body trembling. His pace slowed, slowed, the thickness of his cock inside her felt like it was splitting her apart. 

She could hear his rough breath as he rubbed his nose against her neck and placed open mouthed kisses there. Her cries ebbed, quietened down to soft moans as the grip of her orgasm flowed through her from the rage of a storm to warm waves lapping at a beach. 

Her only warning for what was next was hearing him husk into her ear, “Feels so good when you come… _nnh ~_ ... it’s heaven inside you. So warm, so _wet-_ ” 

If he said more after, she couldn’t hear him. He grasped her hips and angled her forward, pulling her hips back on to him so he could fuck her in earnest. His pace before had been but a taste of the punishing rhythm he was using, and so soon after her orgasm it felt like agony as the sensations piled up on one another. 

His cock was so thick, pistoning into her over and over, filling her, in and out, over and over again and when he leaned back, he was deeper, his fingers digging into her hips and controlling her movements so acutely that all she could do was brace her arms and wrists against her bind and hold on against the onslaught of sensations. 

Her tits bounced. Her head fell forward as he angled her there. Every punishing press of his cock into her tore out a breathless cry. 

When he slowed to move, she wasn’t sure if it was a relief or not. She could feel her pulse in her clit, her folds, and her opening squeezed in a way that was both painful and pleasurable. With his knee he nudged her legs open wider, until he pulled out completely and lifted her by the insides of her thighs, much to the protest of her hip joints. From there he sat, cross-legged between her knees behind her, pushing them open so wide that the inside of her thighs pressed down hard against his -

And he sank her onto his waiting cock slowly, pushing her down, down by the hip until she tried to rise herself back up as his cock felt like it was going to tear her in half. 

“Maker, _Maker_ , no, _it’s too much,_ ” she sobbed, but it was more to do with the pain of him splitting her legs so painfully wide, as her hips rotated, her opening sucking more of him in, and _more_ , until she sank down onto the thick base of him with a howl. 

He lifted her, thrusting up as he pressed her back down again, and she could feel his testicles slap against her. Of their own accord, her hips rotated lovingly against his as he took a pace just as fast and brutal as it was before, enough to keep that slap against her a constant, lurid sensation. 

Was she screaming? Her voice sounded loud in her ears at his rough, deep fucking of her, but she was far past the point of being embarassed. His cock was reaching places in her she’d never felt with Alistair. And Ser cared little for her comfort or vanity, and yet an awful lot for her pleasure, choosing instead the positions that would give him the angle to get as deep inside her as possible, and his hands still caressing her in ways that were bringing her quickly to another peak. 

This orgasm felt like it would be different, as her opening was pulled wide to accommodate the thickness of all of him, _Maker_ , all of him, and briefly she was glad he didn’t give her the full brunt of it in the beginning. 

His hand quested down again between her, and she could feel him split his middle and index fingers to feel his own cock as he fucked her for a few more beats before sliding them up to rub wet, endless circles against her. 

With the depth of him inside her and his hand and the erotic wrongess of the situation and the thickness of him, filling her to the brim, she felt a second wave beginning to loom, the desparate, straining rotations of her hips growing eratic and tears slipping down her face as she came again, pulling on the rope binding her hands to the ring as if that would somehow pull her off him and away from the pleasure that felt too great. 

She felt it deep in her belly, through her hips, could hear him groan as she tightened and fluttered around him as the waves pounded against her, stealing her thought. 

His fingers did not relent, wringing out the last vestiges of pleasure until she cried hoarsely, “No more, no more, no more, no more,” even after he obeyed, and stopped, holding her hips aloft somewhat. 

His breath sounded rough behind her, and she winced when he pulled her off him and he slid free of her. There was no break, no real time to get her bearings as he stood to untie her bind from the ring above her head, holding her still-bound wrists above her with a short, sharp command, “C’mon, _move_.”

The quick glance up at him was all she needed to reassure her that he was just as lost in this awful game as she was. His cheeks and the top of his chest were red under his tan skin. His cock, still painfully erect looked swollen at the head, a thick vein along the side standing out in sharp relief. As he pulled her on her knees along the floor, she wondered if he would put it in front of her face and make her swallow it. The thought should not have enticed her as much as it did. 

Then, she wanted to be an active participant, if she could. To get him lost in the pleasure that she was. To have his skin rise to the touch of her hand, if he would let her. She wanted to see him undone by it. 

But there was no chance to, as he knelt down beside her and placed a palm on the back of her neck; “Down,” he commanded, and pushed, and she fought, but only because she wasn’t ready, and she leaned forward on the hinge of her hips until she was on her front, forehead on the floor. He pulled her still-bound wrists in front of her, and tied them to one of the iron hooks on the floor. He gave her enough movement so she could bend her elbows to her chest if she wished, because her arms ached after being bound over her head. Her hips appreciated the relief of not being pulled apart. 

Gooseflesh rose on her skin as he moved to kneel behind her, beyond her line of sight and she felt his fingertips on her hip and thigh. “Come up onto all fours,” he said, and her face burned as she pulled her hands in towards her until the rope was pulled taut to lean up on her elbows, arse in the air. 

Constance was shaking. Not just from the two devastating orgasms she just had, but at the pause that he took before he muttered the words, “Good girl,” and appreciatively roved his hands over her lower back and bottom. She was sure, with his view, that he could see everything, and the implication burned. She resisted the urge to move away by gritting her teeth. 

Although she did try and move away when she felt him rest his cock between the cleft of her arse, the head bumping against her hole and she jerked forward, a jolt of fear racing up her spine at the thought of him putting it in… there. It would be agony. “No!” She cried, and whimpered when he grabbed her by the hips and hauled her back into him. 

And then there was a loud, stinging slap across her left arse cheek that made her choke on her breath, a surprised yelp coming out of her. 

Her body trembled as he smoothed his hand over the area, and a seething, hot _rage_ sparked behind her eyes as she dared to look back at him, incredulous, “How… how dare you-!”

He slapped her again, _harder_ , and she cried out in surprise at the sting and the noise, and the utter, _utter_ neck of him-

“Do not move away from _me_ , Mage!” He said, rubbing the slapped skin with the edge of his thumb. She could feel the rub of his cock twitching against her cleft. “Not unless you wish for more of that.”

“But… you were-” she could feel his other hand on her backside, thumb pulling her cheeks wider apart to come between them, and she tried to move again, terrified he would try to fuck her that way. “Please don-”

The next slap caused her eyes to water. His free hand grasped her thigh, and by feeling alone of her magic previously broiling up was being pushed down, down, she could tell he was using his talents against her. And then he rubbed the area, and then slapped her again, twice across each cheek, flat-palmed and back-handed, and she cried and pulled hard on her bound hands at every strike.

She couldn’t tell what was worse; the pain of the strike, the way his hands rubbed lovingly over the area after, or the humiliation of being slapped across the backside like she was a naughty child by the man whom she could barely share the same room with without fighting with him. 

He squeezed the generous handfuls of her arse together and thrust between them, “If I wanted to stuff my cock into this cute little hole of yours, I would,” he said, pressing insistently against her for emphasis. “And there would be nothing you could do about it. But I won’t. I want to fuck you, not kill you.” 

Whimpering, trembling, burning at the way he spoke to her, she actually did start crying when he began striking her anew, and the hot pain, coupled with the soothing of his hands, made the tears finally slip free of her eyes so she sobbed in earnest. 

Each strike made her arch her back and she hung her head between her shoulders, crying, crying, the pain making her legs feel like they were on fire. He soothed it each time with a tender press, but it was so much. 

And then his hand with that gentle rub between her legs again, slipping between her folds, rubbing, rubbing back and forth - “Oh,” she heard him gasp and laugh, “ _oh_ you _liked_ that, didn’t you?” 

The rubbing continued, and she bucked into his hand, her face wet with tears, crying, moaning, burning when he said, “Do you feel how wet you are? Did you like being slapped like that?” 

He pushed the tip of his thumb into her opening, the tips of his fingers rubbing endless, endless circles. She could feel a line of drool escaping from her open mouth to roll down her chin as she sobbed. He continued, “How much do you think it’s worth to know that you like being spanked? One-hundred royals? A thousand? Can you feel how your body is pulling on my thumb? Begging to be fucked?” 

As if to drive his point home he pushed his thumb into her to the base of it and she could feel herself pulsing wildly against his hand, her body burning with nowhere to go, and her magic repressed deep with the press of his white glowing hand on her thigh. 

When he pulled his thumb free she ached, sobbing anew when he circled it around her arsehole, getting it wet for him and she trembled in terror but she knew better than to try and move away from him again.

“No, no, please,” she wept, knowing she was a mess, feeling like she was a mess, reduced to begging. 

“I’ll do what I please to you, Mage.” 

His thumb rubbed in circles, over and over, and even as she felt herself lift her backside to his touch and she burned and ached and her core clenched, still she could not take the idea of it. The rubbing… felt good, but she didn’t want to be fucked there. She couldn’t stand it-

And she howled when the tip of his thumb pushed in, slowly, a burning pain/pleasure licking up her spine, her core spasming almost impossibly -

“I’ll say it!” She yelled in warning, mindless, “I’ll say it if you do not stop! I swear! Maker, please just stop!” 

Yet she choked and moaned high and surprised when he slipped his cock up against her folds. The thick curve of it seemed to hug and rub every inch of her, pressing against her so intimately that even that seemed like too much stimulation as another orgasm reared, and he was rubbing, thrusting against her lightly. His hand still glowing white held her in place by her thigh. 

“But you like this,” he teased, his thumb in her gently rotating, pushing so slowly into her, and his cock rubbing every place between her that she was gasping for air, “so if you really want me to stop, then say it.” 

It was true, she thought, as the tears left cool tracks down her burning face. She was enjoying it. It was getting her off. It felt good, though it was painful, to have him strike her across the arse with his open palm, or hook his thumb into her where she had never even touched herself.

She was glad that he could not see her face, burning as it was, as he adjusted his hips to press the blunt head of his cock into her, but she wondered what his expression was like when he breathed out a curse and sank in further, with little thrusts of his hips, helped somewhat by her inability to control how she pushed back against him for more even though that angled his thumb even deeper inside her. 

Eyes rolled back. Her high, sobbing moaning became deeper at the feeling of fullness within her, the dual sensations of his huge cock in her and his thumb in her arsehole, it was desperately full to the point of being overwhelming. He wasted no time nor gave her time to adjust before he started fucking her again, his hand on her thigh clenching tightly, his pace unrelenting. 

Every strike of his hips against her brought a fresh wave of pain against her tender arse. His testicles slapped against her mound which just stacked onto the already overwhelming sensations. It felt like entirely too much, beyond chasing an orgasm - she didn’t know if it would even be possible with what she was feeling. 

It was devastating. She was an utter mess. Broken, completely gone. It felt good, for but a moment, to be nothing. No titles or holdings or responsibility. No army or darkspawn or magic. Just to be nothing. Useless. Pointless past pleasure. 

_“Say my name,”_ she heard him hiss. The angle shifted, and he was reaching in her deeper, harder. 

When she could barely comprehend that he had said anything at all, she heard him command of her again, through his teeth, _“Say it!”_

He must have leaned forward a bit, because something changed, _something_ , and his pace and his force picked up until she was completely helpless at the battering wave of sensations, of his cock splitting her wide and reaching deep inside her, forcing into her. Beyond crying and gasping, she was incoherent. 

And it broke her again, until she stuttered out, high-pitched and mindless, “ _... S-Ser-_ ”

His cock twitched, pulsed. How could she not feel it, when she so tightly hugged him like she was? 

“ _Yesss,_ ” he breathed, and then groaned, low and deep as their fucking continued harshly, and she could feel her core constrict around him at the sound, “ _say it again._ ” 

“ _Nnn-... nnnh-... nn-Ser,_ ” 

“Fuck,” his swear was full of anxious, desparate breath, almost like he was unsure, and she felt the rise in the bottom of her stomach. An excited heat. To hear he was enjoying it was fuelling another impossible orgasm, and it terrified her to think of what it would do to her if it happened. It would ruin her. It could kill her, she thought. It felt like it was. 

The thumb that was buried in her was pulled out, slowly, thankfully, which she found a little impressive given how fast and hard he was fucking her, and he leaned forward to wind his fingers through her hair, pulling it into a fist. 

But he did not pull her up and back with it, as she thought he would. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing her upper body down into the floor. He roughly angled her head down between her shoulders until her chin was touching her chest. 

“Watch,” he ordered breathlessly, “open your eyes. Watch me fucking you.” 

She popped her eyes open, wincing at the pull of his hand through her hair and the press of her forehead on the floor, and obeyed as she looked down past her navel and the waving of her tits to see the lurid sight of his hips pumping against hers, of his balls slapping against her, and her legs trembling and her hips rotating and clenching at every strike. There was sweat and her own lubrication running in thin trails down her inner thighs, being forced up her mound with the power of his thrusts. 

She had never seen anything like it, and she kept watching as his fist held her there to spectate over their union. She had never watched herself getting fucked before. His cock looked enormous as it pulled and pushed within her, and as she wriggled and cried out and watched and felt it all pile on her, she could feel the orgasm building further, grateful that his glowing hand on her was suppressing her because she was sure the power of it would incinerate them both. 

She felt she had to warn him, somehow, but couldn’t form the sentence, choked against her own chest, “ _Maker- oh! Maker, Ser, I-I- nnh-nnh-nnh-nnh-nnh-nnh-!_ ”

But the call of his name without provocation only seemed to serve to fuel him, as he was hammering against her and groaning, over and over, cock pistoning into her and his body pressing her into the floor and that feeling of utter helplessness was what really did her in. Of not being able to move, for the pleasure and the pain, and the sight of him fucking her. Of her magic being pushed inside her with no way to tap into it. Of her hands being bound and useless. Of the _sound_ of him loving it. 

He swore and swore as she came, groaning something she couldn’t hear past the inferno her body was caught up in. Of her hips rotating and pulling him and the deep, powerful clench at the continued slap of his testicles on her over-stimulated clitoris. And she cried and moaned to try and get past the overwhelming avalanche of sensations all crashing down on her at once, trying to pull him in and push him off at the same time, her knees and legs pushing and slipping against the floor. 

The gasp of air that she took when he let go of her and pulled out of her nearly made her faint. In a flurry, he pulled her bindings off the hook and lifted her up from where she was trembling on the floor, under her knees and back and into his arms like a baby. She could feel the powerful pump of his chest as he held her against it and carried her across the room. 

To the bedroll in the corner - 

And he lay her down on it on her back, pulling the rope around her wrists apart at the knot, and with her arms suddenly free she was embarrassed when she wasn’t sure what to do with them. He parted her legs, hooking her knees around the crooks of his elbows, splitting her legs wide and angling her hips up when he leaned down to plant his hands on either side of her - 

When his impossibly hard cock pushed into her oversensitive opening, another tear slipped free from her eyes. She looked up to see him, some thin tendrils of his hair having escaped his bun, looming over her, her legs in the air, and his eyes were warm and fierce as he released one of her legs to reach up and wipe the tear away with his thumb. 

It was a regrettably romantic gesture, as she pressed her face against his palm, eyes blurry. 

How was he still going? She was utterly ruined. 

And he made some… _noise_. A whine, in the back of his throat, before he hooked her leg over his elbow again and leaned forward to press their mouths together in a kiss that was so impossibly sweet, his expression unreadable, pained and the colour high in his cheeks. 

Chest to chest, he moved, his body a warm, undulating wave. It wasn’t slow, but it wasn’t hard either and she was grateful for his mouth on hers to swallow up the gasps and moans coming out of her. With her hands now free she gripped his shoulders, his skin soft, muscle shifting and powerful under her hands. 

Their tongues intertwined. Kisses were hot and gasping, and as his pace and force increased he had to pull away to breathe, watching her through heavily lidded eyes so black she could barely see them. 

She met his gaze, mesmerised at his wet open mouth, his hooded eyelids and slack expression, empty of everything but the pleasure of their coupling. Briefly she was jealous of his ability to relive these moments in his memory in gorgeous colour and clarity. He made that whine again, and she could feel his cock pulse inside her. 

It felt good, but she could not come again, she didn’t have it in her. She wondered why he didn’t finish when it was clear that he wanted to when he had her on all fours. But she wasn’t complaining when she could see his face, and there was a breathless intimacy to it all. 

She wanted him to come. She wanted to see it. And it looked like he was nearly there. 

“ _Ser,_ ” she whispered, and she could see the pupils of his eyes dilate, sliding her hand up his neck to cup his jaw, “inside,” she said, “come inside me.” 

His breath hitched, and she moaned when she could feel his cock throb in her abused passage and he made this _noise_ like she’d stuck a knife between his ribs, high and raw and scared. She could only barely afford a twitch of her hips with the way he had her, and he held her gaze as he lost himself, his mouth open, groaning, whining like a puppy -

She could feel his cock throbbing as he came and to watch it break over his face was incredible, his eyes rolling back, his hips still thrusting into her in erratic pumps as the shocks wracked his powerful frame. His eyes wavered and filled with tears, his breathless moan a warm wave of air against her face and collar. _Beautiful._

Ser trembled, in the aftermath, leaning forward to press his forehead against her brow, both of them breathing heavy, exhausted. He released her legs and it took her a moment to allow them to flop open, wincing at the crack in her hip. 

When his hand came up to cradle her face, she wound her arms languidly around his neck as the kiss was slow, and soft. It seemed such a strong counterpoint to how they were just moments prior. 

To just a few hours prior. 

The ease in which they kissed and held each other should have felt jarring. It didn’t. Not until he pressed his nose against hers and smiled this soft, warm secretive thing that she had never seen before, and she realised that the mutual reciprocation between the two of them was what jarred her, not his softness. 

He slipped his softening cock out of her and sat back onto his haunches, and she barely had the energy to protest when he moved away from her. 

“Stay there,” he said, and she watched through hooded eyes as he stood to take something from the foot-chest just a step away. The light from the lanterns flickered over his powerful body, making his tan skin look like gold. 

Her laugh was still breathless, “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, eyes drooping, “I can’t _move_.”

He chuckled lightly, and as he returned to her side he placed a hand on her waist and ordered quietly, “Roll onto your front.” 

Constance eyed him suspiciously, eyed the bottle of amber liquid he returned with in his other hand, but she turned onto her front regardless, the floor under the bedroll hard and unforgiving. It felt like it took monumental effort for such a small thing, and she sighed into the down of the bedroll as she relaxed. He coaxed her arms up over her head and crossed them at the wrists, but didn’t tie them together again. She winced as they chafed, bruised and raw from pulling at her bindings. 

How could he possibly want to keep going? She thought, feeling a wave of exhaustion hitting her. She would be asleep if he tried again, but she barely had the energy to argue. 

There was the sound of the cork being pulled from the bottle, his hands rubbing together, and then he pressed them against the expanse of her back, smoothly rubbing a film of oil across her. It smelled of sweet almonds and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

She turned her head to look at him from the corner of her eye and asked him in amusement, “What are you doing?” 

“Taking care of you,” was the easy reply, warm and devoid of tension. Unsure of what he meant, she took a moment before turning her face into the thin pillow underneath her, and allowed him to continue his tender ministrations. 

A massage was not what she was expecting from him. Bloody hell, none of what they did was what she was expecting from him, and yet she lay there, sighing at the press of his big hands pressing and rubbing into sore muscles and aching bones with a patience she was almost envious of. 

He would find a knot, press his thumb into it until it eased, and then rub and roll the space afterwards. He worked on both of her shoulders, up the back of her neck, down across her arms and in between each of her fingers before turning to the twin muscles that lined her spine and the blade of her shoulders. 

She sank further still into the bedroll, relaxing completely, and she wondered if she was falling asleep before he gently rubbed down the small of her back and across her tender backside, still smarting from the way he struck her earlier. Yet he was gentle, caressing, pouring a generous amount of oil on his hands before smoothing them over the stinging area and she sighed deeply into the pillow, letting him work down her aching legs in circles. 

When he grasped her feet she jerked, and there was a brief but funny struggle when he wouldn’t let go, a playful dynamic she allowed because it felt _good_ even though it tickled. Had anyone ever touched her feet before? Had she and Alistair shared such moments together before he became King? She couldn’t remember, and she doubted it. There was no time during the Blight to enjoy such things. 

He coaxed her to roll over again, presumably for him to continue his massage, and for a moment she contemplated saying no, but only because she didn’t want to overburden him with what she was ultimately quite enjoying, and she knew he would not accept that answer. So she turned, the back of her sticking to the fabric behind, her hair sticking to the back of her neck, and raised her arms above her head and crossed her wrists as told to her earlier. She burned under his gaze, but was too exhausted to try and cover herself up. 

The sudden shyness grew, and then ebbed, as his oiled hands rubbed and rolled her hip bones and the insides of her thighs, still sore and stiff from what they had done earlier, and the relief took all of her embarrassment away. He worked down her legs, and back up again. She closed her heavy eyes to stop them from falling away. 

Though she did burn with a vague heat when he ran his hands up her stomach slowly, gripping her ribs and then up to cup her breasts and she _did_ moan, and she _did_ arch with what little strength she had. It felt good, even if she could not reasonably have sex with him again without some sort of healing magic. 

The kiss he pressed lightly against her mouth made her moan again, and he rubbed up across her shoulders, back down between the valley of her chest, and then back up again to cup her breasts in each hand. The soft rubs of the tips of his fingers into her nipples, still sensitive but delighting in the oil being spread on them, caused a heat to course through her core. 

If he was going to fuck her again, he was taking his time. She wasn’t complaining, but she wondered even still, as he continued on her torso. 

Every time he grazed her nipples, she arched. She thought that would be the end of it, as his touch continued down her hips. 

And then for a moment it was gone, but his presence still lingered. Until he coaxed her to bend her legs up, and she felt him place a kiss over her lower belly, and he hooked her exhausted legs over his shoulders, which was a terrible relief as all the weight was taken out of them. 

But his mouth pressed against her mound, she opened her eyes and leaned up to look down at him between her legs, knees over his shoulders, his hands around her hips. 

“ _Ah~_ “ was what she managed, as he kissed the apex of her slit, before, “wait… you don’t have to-”

And then there was a long, sinful lick with the broad flat of his tongue that made her toes curl. “Ser I… I don’t think I can come again.” 

“You don’t have to,” he said, making eye-contact with her over her mound and she blushed fiercely, “you just have to lie back and enjoy it.” 

She couldn’t hold his gaze with the way he was between her legs, so she did as told, and lay back into the bedroll with a weakly hammering heart. His facial hair scratched and tickled in a way that was not unpleasant, and she could feel it with each press of his mouth, kissing up and down. 

His tongue parted her. She still felt achy and swollen after their rough and ready sex earlier, but there was a soothing slowness to his mouth that eased her. His saliva lubricated her, and she wondered if he was doing it on purpose as his tongue glided from her opening up to swirl against her clit, or if she had so quickly gotten wet again. 

The grip on her hips was light, pressing down as she arched up, a low, hazy rush of pleasure coursing up her spine. Alistair tried something similar once, and she came so quickly and gracelessly that she clamped her legs around his head and he made fun of her for weeks over it. She didn’t want to make the comparison between them but Alistair was the only other man she’d known. Ser was so jarringly different that it almost didn’t feel fair. 

Her breath was coming in quick pants, and she had energy for little else. She could not struggle against him, or push up against his face for more. All she could afford to do was what he said, to lie back and enjoy what his mouth was doing to her core, swirling his tongue, kissing, sucking with slow and gentle pressure. 

_Can he taste himself?_ She wondered, as he slowly pushed his tongue inside. She moaned low and deep, and so did he. _Can you?_ She thought. 

The thought left her breathless. Was she really able to come again? 

The pain was brief, when one of his hands let go of her hips and he was pressing his blunt thumb into her, her passage still sore from his earlier abuse. But that pain ebbed at the pressure of his mouth on her clit, and before long she could feel herself tightening around his thumb. 

Her toes against his back curled. She gripped the pillow under her head. 

“Ser, Maker, Ser…” the little pumps she made with her hips forced his thumb into a rhythm, and his tongue was rolling broad over her clit, up and down between her folds. Everything in her narrowed down to it, coiling low in her belly as another orgasm started to build. 

The slow time he took, the patience, the build over what felt like hours, and still he made no change to his pace or pressure, no hurry or force and for that she was grateful, because she didn’t think she could handle any more. 

She couldn’t take it. She was coming again, low and rolling like thunder. She wanted to say something as her moans turned to sobs, her hips aching, his thumb pressing out and into her, but she had no words. 

The orgasm she had seemed to last forever, hips jerking against his face, and he held her there by kissing, kissing against her over-stimulated clit to drag it out of her for as long as he could, thumb swirling inside her. 

He continued for moments after her hips fell back to the floor, slow licks up against her in a way that was strangely easing, and as he took his mouth away he placed the flat of his palm over her mound and just sort of… held her there for a moment as he crawled up towards her. 

The gesture left her reeling, tears stinging her eyes. 

His mouth and nose was wet as he kissed her, she could taste herself on his lips. She was in his mustache, in his beard, all over his face. But she didn’t care, and he didn’t seem to either. 

Eyes were hooded and lazy as they gazed at each other, kissing slow and fond, like they had been lovers for years. He moved to the side, dragging her onto her side with him and she allowed it, legs and arms flopping together. 

“Sleep,” he said, but her eyes were already closed. His embrace was warm, skin soft and smelling of the air after a lightning strike. 

Exhausted, it took her but moments to follow the instruction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Jesus Christ


	7. Chapter 7

Constance’s exhausted sleep seemed to last a lifetime, but she did remember waking up some few times during the night. 

The first time was when he had dragged a blanket over the two of them, and the weight of his arm was warm and heavy around her shoulder. 

The second was after a nightmare, eerie and full of darkspawn tunneling downward into the darkness, their claws curling into wet clay and earth. She didn’t jerk awake but her eyes did snap open, and she looked across to see his face in the glow of the still-burning lanterns, so calm and at peace. His bun had unraveled at some point in the night, cascading a wave of silky black hair across his neck and over the pillow behind him. 

How many people saw him like that, she wondered. How many got to see him without the aggressive antagonism in him? 

It seemed like suddenly she was intruding on something very personal, and with her left arm going dead from sleeping on it, she turned onto her other side, away from him. He inhaled deeply and murmured something in his sleep, his arm around her shoulders pulling her back up against his chest. His legs curled in under hers, until all of her was pressed against all of him, and it was warm. It took her moments to fall asleep again. 

When she awoke properly to the distant sounds of birdsong, she jerked up then, the blankets falling slack beside her. 

She looked about, clutching them up to her chest, “Ser?” 

But there was no answer. He must have left her earlier. 

A little disappointed, she curled her knees up as she pulled the blanket a little tighter around her. On the pillow to her side, she saw he had left his memoir for her neatly on top of it - 

With a note! 

Heart hammering, she picked up the brown leather-bound book, small, but thick with pages so thin they were almost translucent. The torn page of the note on top was written with small handwriting and stunningly neat cursive - 

_This is yours to peruse at your leisure, but I do expect it back when you are done. I have ear-marked the pages that I deemed relevant. I would ask that you not destroy it, nor show it to anyone else. It would be a pain to have to write it all again._

_-S_

She flipped the note over, wondering if perhaps there was more, and directly in the middle she read the line - 

_You felt like heaven, last night_

Her breath caught, at the admission, in a way no one else’s ever had, her heart beating fiercely in her ears. A hot blush raced up her cheeks and she pressed the note tight to her chest before reading it again a few more times. The burn of what they did was still fresh in her memory, and every bit of her ached deliciously in the morning sun streaming down from the window. 

Her wrists were chafed and red from the rope. She could feel a tenderness and bruising along her backside, and her nipples were still over-sensitive as they pressed against the blanket. Her core ached, although with a fierce flush of heat she thought that might be worse had he not kissed her so tenderly there after they were done. 

Magic would easily rectify the issues… although she didn’t want to get rid of the marks and irks just yet. The physical memory was a pleasant reminder of the mental one. She wanted to indulge in it for a while longer, and she wondered if he would spend the rest of the day reliving it as clear as when it happened… 

She could still barely believe it actually happened. 

How was she going to look her fellow advisors in the eye at the war council today? How would she focus…? 

Placing the note beside her on the floor, she turned to the book, resting it on her knees with a slow sort of reverence. A memoir was an incredibly personal thing to read, essentially a diary of sorts. He mentioned he had several, and she could understand why, when she flicked through a few pages to see the writing, so tiny and so overstuffed into every line that it was almost overwhelming. 

His hyperthymesia probably meant that every memory was clear as a bell, and to know he would lose all that, with only his hand-written books to reference… 

Was he trying to claw back what the Lyrium would take from him…? 

Constance felt an understanding with Cullen that she hadn’t felt before. 

Lyrium addiction was a monstrous beast. The chantry had yet to answer for their crime. She wondered if she was so dead to the world this morning that she didn’t even hear him prepare his morning draught. A part of her was glad she didn’t. 

It seemed such a personal affair. 

Yet he offered his memoir to her… for something as simple as a kiss. Perhaps he was right, it did seem a paltry price to pay for access to his memories, and the life of a man she knew nothing of. She didn’t even know his real name. 

The corners of certain pages were folded down. His note mentioned that he marked the ones he thought relevant for her. One such page caught her eye as she skimmed over the text, having to hold the book a little closer to her face to read the miniscule words - 

_We entered the makeshift_ _chantry, and my comrades-to-be were arranged as though an honor guard - the trainer waiting to receive me. I was invited to pass among them, and it seemed important that each step be my will. Any reluctance would have signaled that I was not ready. They were boisterous and encouraging, slapping hands upon my shoulders as I passed. Upon reaching the trainer, he turned to me. Before him was the boxed philter I had prepared. He nodded, as if to ask if I was ready, and I returned the gesture. His eyes were solemn as he raised a mailed hand. It was bathed in the shapeless glow of lyrium far too strong, prepared in a way I did not know._

_The hands of my fellows, still on my shoulders, gently turned from welcome to restraint, and my arms were made immobile at my sides. I felt a rising alarm, but my certainty beat it down, as it would many times in my career. The trainer pressed the glow against my chest, and in an instant all was pain and white. When next I had my senses, there was much camaraderie and rejoicing, but also knowing looks. Each day, I felt a hunger deeper than I had ever known, and woe be me if it went unfed. I cannot imagine bearing it without the support of the Order and my certain purpose._

With shaking hands, Constance felt the end of her stomach recede, and she gently closed the book shut and held it close to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself. 

_He remembered._

She doubted he did before, but he remembered. It was still a difficult thing to understand of his condition, of his mental cognition. The passage was near the beginning, and she could imagine that his current memoir was only from his days training as a Templar and up to the present, as the final few pages were blank. Each page, gossamer thin, was the only defence he had against his addiction. To think that he would lose it…

She supposed all warriors probably prayed that they would make it to see that point. She knew even she would not have that luxury, as the taint slowly poisoned her every day. If the darkspawn did not kill her, their blood certainly would. 

Did Ser feel something similar to her…? Did he also watch his hourglass trickle down towards his last grain of sand...?

She clutched the book tighter, jumping when she heard the door to the requisitions office open and the jovial voice of the requisitions officer with a guest chatting below. 

“Shit…” she swore under her breath, and eyed her clothes strewn about the mezzanine. Luckily none had fallen to the office below. She quickly, quietly got dressed, and made a point to tidy the space around her and smooth out the fabric of the bedroll. She knew nothing of tying knots, so she rolled the rope he used the previous evening into a coil and placed it on top of his foot-chest.

The window served as a quick escape route, and she felt undeniably lucky when no one was about the parapets or the garden below in the early morning as it was, and she gently dropped to the ground with the aid of a minor levitation spell. 

And all while quickly walking back to the main hall, wincing and with a slight limp, she kept Ser’s note crinkled in her palm and his book tight against her breast, feeling as though she had his life in her hands.

In a manner, she supposed she did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for witnessing this travesty
> 
> Ser's memory is from Codex entry: Way of the Templar, which was what started this absolute sin against man, so credits to the DA writers for that part


End file.
